


Wrong #

by afractionof



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afractionof/pseuds/afractionof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You really didn't see that one coming. But, you can't say you're all that... upset, you suppose. After all, it could be a lot worse, right? It's not every day you send off selfies to your best bro and end up getting one or two, or maybe even three, back from a complete stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from tumblr.
> 
> [Amazing Art by Cactusgarrus](http://cactusgarrus.tumblr.com/post/55918378727/an-image-to-accompany-this-awesome-little-ficlet) 
> 
> And a thank you to brodingershat for inadvertently name the series and to broskiba for putting up with all my crap in general.

You stare down at the phone in your hand and the picture lit up on the screen. 

You’re not usually one for doing that whole ‘selfie’ deal that Dave’s into. You don’t think you’re all that photogenic, to be honest, but you’ve never been able to pass up a good prank.

The phone beeps, a load screen popping up, and you jump when it vibrates in your hand to tell you it’s ready to send. 

You miss your old phone and the ugly, sharpie marker-ed ghost on the back of the case, but you kind of like that this one has a camera. And internet. And it’s not missing half the rubber-y buttons on it and can actually call people that aren’t in your contacts list. 

Still, you’re not really used to the different tones and how bright it is. It’s even got a flash on it and you’d nearly blinded yourself when you were first messing around with all the new features. That double-sided-camera-screen-thing that lets you take a picture and look at the screen at the same time is pretty cool but it should come with some kind of hazard warning before the point a spot light in your eyes. 

You don’t imagine squinting in your new selfies is all that attractive and that’s the idea right? 

You guess it doesn’t really matter. 

This isn’t exactly meant to be attractive anyway, and you’ve got the same, dorky smile you always do. You can even see your teeth and you automatically purse your lips to cover them. It’s the same as always. Your shirt is just missing this time and you’re doing that thing where guys hook their thumb in the front of their pants and try to act all cool and #swag or whatever Dave is always teasing you with. 

You’re not cool though and you’re definitely not #swag, whatever that actually means, and that’s what makes it great. 

Rose would probably approve, you think. She might even congratulate you on a fine round of snark-based humor at the expense of Dave Strider’s selfie taking habit and maybe even employ a similar tactic in her next passive aggressive text battle.

Okay, probably not. 

You’re not even sure Rose has text battles, passive aggressive or otherwise. You’re not even sure she actually texts. 

Flopping down on your bed, you input out Dave’s number, mumbling it under your breath as you tap your thumb against the screen. 

This touch screen stuff is pretty cool, even if you’re still kind of getting the hang of it. Your hands feel a little big for the phone, fingers fat against the digital keypad but you’re getting used to it. Dave’s getting a kick out of all your typos too, so you guess it’s good for something else. As long as it stops correcting ‘shirt’ to ‘shit’ for you, anyway. Telling someone your typo’d-shirt smells like cake and sugar isn’t exactly the best thing in the world, even if it is funny after the fact. 

You don’t really bother adding much of the message this time, though. That’d be a kind of over the top when the picture pretty much explains itself, so you just hit send and roll over to wait for what is sure to be a good reply. 

Dave’s the Queen of good reactions and you really wish you could see his face when he opens up the message but you’ll have to settle for a delayed response. You know he’s going to retype his reply at least five or six times to get just the ri—

Your phone beeps and you glance over. 

There’s a little envelope hovering in the center of the screen and the phone vibrates twice. 

That was fast. Usually Dave takes a couple minutes, at least. The thought that maybe you shocked him into a keyboard smash or two makes the corners of your lips twitch, however and you open it up quickly.

Unfortunately, your moment of hopeful triumph is short lived and your eyes widen when a picture loads. 

It’s a chest— well, most of one, at least. At the top of the screen there’s a gloved hand hooked around the bunched fabric of a white shirt and you groan when you glance down at the caption below it. 

**_‘wrong #’_**

…and what are you even supposed to say to that? 

Are you supposed to say anything at all? It’d be kind of rude to ignore it, wouldn’t it? Or would it be kind of intelligent considering you just sent some random-not-your-best-friend-dude a picture of yourself half naked and that’s kind of awkward? 

This should be one of those things the instruction manual for your new phone covers. 

So should double checking the numbers. And how to add contacts properly because Dave’s number has two threes at the end and not a three and a six.

Maybe just an Egbert’s Guide to Not Being a Technological Failure, would be good.

Your eyes dart back to the picture and you slap a hand over your face, sighing when the chest hasn’t vanished and you’re left with some guy’s skin in HD. 

You guess… it’s not all bad though, right?

On the plus side, Dave’s nowhere near you to witness your embarrassment and then tease you constantly for the next twelve or thirteen years. On the down side, you’ll probably end up telling him anyway because you guys have this weird habit of telling each other everything that you’re pretty sure comes from being best bros. 

Either way, you’ve got a chest on your phone and it’s kind of not a bad chest and you’re not hiding very well because you don’t really think peeking out from between your fingers counts as hiding. 

You’re not even really sure why you’re hiding. It’s not like the guy sent you porn or something and just from talking to Dave and hearing the adventures that go on in the Strider household, you’re pretty sure that could have been an option. 

Images of felt and Dave yapping about rumps filter to the front of your mind and you shake your head as you sit up. You drop your hand away from your face, taking a slow breath to try to steady your hands enough to reply and a strained laugh bubbles up, out of your chest. 

Jesus, wow— you’re really kind of… lame. 

Yeah, you’re kind of lame but you guess it could be worse because if there’s one thing you’ve learned from all the internet-ing and the texting and Dave, it’s that you can always fake cool. 

And that it could always be worse. 

And you’re pretty sure that, in this situation, ‘ _yep. my bad_.’ is probably about as cool as you’re going to get and that’s not too bad, you don’t think. 

If you were really cool though and your face didn’t feel like it was on fire, you might add a ‘nice pic, though’ or a ‘least it worked out well’ to the end of it but… 

Well, maybe you’ll just delete the message and forget about it. 

Or save it. That works too. It’s a new phone and stuff. You probably don’t know how to delete anyway. 

Yep. 

Totally your bad. 


	2. Msg Received

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're still working on figuring out exactly how to delete contacts-- really. But, in the mean time, you think you'd just like to know where Mr. Wrong # got those shorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Another Piece by Cactusgarrus that you should really check out.](http://cactuspr0n.tumblr.com/post/55977727231/for-afractionof-considering-shes-tempting-me)

It’s been two weeks and you still haven’t figured out how to delete pictures off your phone. Or properly lie to yourself, but that’s pretty much beside the point. 

You shouldn’t have kept it to begin with. Honestly, you shouldn’t have even sent the damn thing, let alone to the wrong number, and then replied when the answering half-naked man sent you a half-naked photo to match your own half-naked photo. 

Admittedly, you’ve given up trying to deny that it’s a really good picture. Whoever it is, is either very lucky in the genes or they put a lot of work into keeping that kind of tone and stuff. 

Glancing down, you poke at your own chest. You’re not exactly Mister Muscles, but you’re not really the same pudgy kid you were before either. You’re pretty sure it’s still all there because you definitely didn’t take up running marathons to burn it all off, it just kind of stretched out when you grew seven inches and your shoulders decided they wanted to be broad instead of the narrow things they’d been before. 

Which is okay with you; whenever it gets warm enough, swimming is actually a thing you do now.  

Flopping back on your bed, you sigh and dig your phone out of your pocket. 

It’s become something of a habit to flip through the gallery you’ve built up and you’re not really sure why you’re still trying to kid yourself. You don’t even really look at all the other ones. You can see the sky if you shove your head out the window or the beach if you get in the car and drive out there. You know exactly what you’re waiting for to pop up on the screen and it doesn’t make you feel any better to waste the time. You just do it because. Because is why. 

You slide your thumb across the screen, blatantly ignoring the scenery going by and flip to the end of a long line of pictures. You’re two pictures ahead of what you’re wanting, the first selfie you’d taken where you’re squinting and blind showing up, when the phone vibrates and you drop it on the bed. 

No one really texts you since you got the mobile app for Pesterchum and you think you prefer it that way but there’s an envelope hovering in the middle of your screen and above it, there’s a number with ‘Wrong #’ floating beneath it. 

Your mouth goes a little dry and you glance around your room. Admittedly, you’re not really sure what you’re expecting to find or why you feel kind of like you stole cookies from the cookie jar and you have to remind yourself that you’re not exactly a kid anymore. 

Yeah, texting someone a partially naked picture of yourself is probably not the best thing to do? 

Maybe? 

Yeah, no, it’s probably not but you’re still getting used to that ‘adult’ and ‘can do what I want’ thing so it doesn’t matter if it’s a good idea or not. 

Nodding to yourself, you take a deep breath and open the message. 

It’s another picture and your head tips as it loads, eyebrows lifting a little because it’s not really what you’d expected to see and you mentally kick yourself for automatically assuming half-naked guy was going to be half-naked. 

For the record, he’s not and instead of the tanned chest from before, there’s a clothes hanger and a tan hand holding it up. Hanging from the clips is probably the most god awful pair of shorts you’ve ever seen and you laugh when a message pops up underneath them. 

**_‘had 2 share them w/ some1’_ **

And you’re that someone? 

You guess if you found something like that, you might want to share them too but you’d probably send them to Dave or maybe even Rose. You’re pretty sure she’d get a kick out of them but… it might cross your mind to send them to Mr. Wrong # but you probably wouldn’t have. 

That’d be kind of weird and then he’d know you saved his number and you smile, face heating because he obviously saved yours. 

You shake your head at yourself, reaching up to rub a hand over your face before leaning to get a better look and you can’t help but laugh again. 

They look like they’re made out of plastic. And you’re pretty sure they’re kind of really, really see-through. 

You text back a simple  _‘wow.’_  and you won’t lie, you’re kind of surprised when another message comes in right after that. 

**_‘sexyy rite?’_ **

Sexy… You don’t really think that’s exactly what you’d call them. They kind of remind you of those glittery, plastic sandals the girls in your first grade class used to wear. But okay. Sure. If that’s what he wants to call them, you’re not going to rain on his plastic-y butt-shorts parade after he texted you and stuff. 

_‘yeah. right. they’re very sexy.’_

This time he doesn’t answer right away and you figure that’s the end of it. You can’t really have a full conversation around neon hot pants anyway, right? 

But, a few minutes later, when the phone buzzes again, you guess maybe you can. 

Kind of. You might be too busy burying your face into the comforter and trying to figure out if you should laugh hysterically or not and if it’s weird to be that attractive in something that ugly, to actually hold up your end of a conversation.  

Your cheeks are hot and your shoulders shake and you guess laughing is going to happen whether it’s the answer or not but you’re not really sure if you’re laughing at yourself or the fact that he actually fit his butt into green, plastic-y ass-shorts and sent a picture to you and that you think they look really good on him. 

Either way, you’re kind of laughing at yourself so you guess it doesn’t really matter. 

Hesitantly, you nudge the phone, turning it over and, well, you’re pretty sure just about anything would look good on a guy with an ass like that. And that back too. 

You can see the top of his phone and the camera held barely over his shoulder. A little bit of blond hair is visible on the back of his neck and if you squint you’re pretty sure you can pick out a scar or two. The picture cuts off right at the back of his thighs, just below the edge of those awful shorts and your lips twitch again because, wow, those are probably really uncomfortable. 

**_‘looked like u needed some convincing.’_ **

You swallow thickly, eyes darting up to the small of his back, just above that edge of green and nod absently. 

_‘consider me convinced.’_


	3. Hot Pants.png

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe green's not your color but he's not complaining and neither are you.

You’ve given up trying to pretend you’re ever going to get rid of that number. Or that you’ll ever be able to look at green the same way. Or that you’ve got any hope of not dropping everything and scrambling for your phone the second it buzzes in your pocket.

And you figure that’s how you ended up locked in your bathroom with a bright pair of green boxers and a new pair of pants skinnier than anything you’ve ever tried to fit yourself into before. You’re not really sure about how the jeans are going to go over. You’re not Dave and your legs aren’t exactly that skinny in your opinion, at least, but you guess as long as they don’t cut off circulation to your junk, you can wear them long enough to snap a picture or two.

It’s only been a couple days but the latest picture has been a near constant feature on the screen of your phone and when you’d seen the boxers earlier that day, you hadn’t been able to resist buying them, unable to let go of the nagging thought that Mr. Wrong # might appreciate your weird sense of humor.

Lips twitching, you kick your shoes to the side and slip your current pair of jeans off. They land in a pile of the floor, quickly followed by your favorite, worn pair of boxers— blue with little ghosts on them and you really don’t care if they’re dorky or not. They’re your favorite for a reason and you’re positive a more comfortable pair will never be found.

The new ones feel a little weird going over your legs, softer and silkier than you’re used to, and the band fits snugly around your hips, unlike most of the ones you own. It’s not stretched or frayed and you snap it lightly before glancing up at the mirror.

Green— this almost lime green, at least— might not be your color.

It doesn’t matter though. Your reasoning for buying them is kind of dumb to begin with anyway.

You pull the jeans on next and instantly regret the decision. They’re tight against the backs of your thighs, hugging your ass in all the spots your regular pants are usually loose and airy and the boxers have bunched up uncomfortably. You make a mental note to find some boxer-briefs that you like if you ever want to actually wear these pants, which, honestly, you’re not sure you do, but… they don’t look that bad, you guess. They could definitely be worse.

You just don’t really look like you in some weird way. They’d reminded you a little of Dave and a little of the ones the mystery guy had been wearing in that first picture but now you’re not really sure and after giving yourself a final once over, it takes you all of a second to peel them back off and pull your old ones back on.

A soft sigh escapes you when the boxers settle properly and you step close to the mirror, reaching for the denim at your waist.

The pants you’ve got on are a little old and they hang a little low but that’s fine with you. That’s idea, even—exactly what you were hoping for and you hook your fingers in the belt loops to shimmy them down further.

A little bit of hip sticking out is good, right?

Your head tips as you take in your reflection and your face heats when your eyes travel down over the trail of dark hair that disappears much lower than you’re used to.

Yeah, you’re pretty sure that’s good.  

Fumbling with your phone for a minute, you flick on the second light and chew your lip in thought. A downward angle is probably the best you’re going to get without leaning too much and you go through at least five different pictures before you end up with one that doesn’t make you look like you’re lurking in some kind of dimly lit dungeon, hunched over like a cave man. There’s probably some other setting on the phone that’s better for the thoroughly-not-so-well-planned-out selfie you’re going for, but that’s not really your main concern right now.

Your main concern is showing off some hips and some hideous boxers you bought specifically to show a guy you don’t know.

Really, it’s a great concern. You might even call it spectacular or maybe fantastic.

—yeah.

Shaking your head at yourself, you ignore the supposed intelligence or lack thereof of your plan and load up the picture, typing out a quick message underneath. It’s simple and even if you’re pretty sure green isn’t exactly your color, it’s still worth asking about just because that’s the only thing you’ve got to say. And you kind of feel like it’s important to say something along with it after you last, text only message.

Maybe that’s just you and maybe you’re just rethinking things but that’s what you do so, oh well.

You send it off and wait for a few minutes, leaning against the counter, eyes on the phone, but no new messages pop up and, after a while, you think that might be enough.

There’s a line between texting back and forth half-naked and waiting around half-naked by yourself for a reply. You’re not that guy on the other side of the line and there’ll be no waiting around for you.

At least, not in the bathroom.

You figure waiting around at your desk is at least a little more dignified. And Dave’s online so you can chat with him and go back to pretending you don’t have any weird numbers stored in your phone or rave worthy boxers clinging to your butt.

Or you would have, anyway, if your phone hadn’t chosen to vibrate the second you’d gone to open a chat window with him.

You’re a little hesitant, honestly, despite being the one to send a picture first this time and when you open it up, you’re ready for a similar shot. That’s not what greets you though and you frown at your phone.

At the top of the message list is the one you sent—  _‘think green’s my color?’_ — and below that is a little white square with a movie reel in the middle.

**_‘i think it is.’_** , is typed out below and, sitting up, you tap the screen.

The square widens, taking up the full view on your phone and a loading bar appears. It’s only a couple seconds but your hands have already started to sweat and when more of that tanned skin comes into view, your breath catches in your throat.

His lips are visible at the top of the screen and you watch as they part and his tongue curls over his top teeth, a little flash of metal barely visible on the underside before he bites his lip and smiles at you.

It cuts off there, frozen on that lazy, teasing smile and you play it again, eyes darting down to the way his jaw moves and how the skin pinches, caught between straight white teeth you’d give your left leg to have.  

And… and what the hell even is that?

You drop the phone on the desk, ignoring the way it clatters over the surface, and drag a hand over your face.

A video? Really?

…If he was going to one up you, you’re ready to throw in the towel right now and admit defeat.

That was… you’re not even sure what that was. That was cheating, obviously, but, then again, you’d never made it a game had you? Or had it been a game from the start? You guess that last one might be kind of true… It’d been a prank which was close enough to a game and now you were the one on the other end of your own joke. You were being beaten at your own kind-of-game—blown out of the water, more accurately.

And Dave was never going to let you live it down if he found out.

It takes you a minute but you can’t but grin when you pick up the phone and, yeah, you’ll admit, you play the clip once again before closing it out. 

_‘i guess i should take that as an agreement?’_

**_‘was def. an agreement.’_ **

**_‘got urself some hot pants.’_  **

**_‘curious wats next.’_ **

You laugh but you kind of have to agree with him. You’re curious too and more than a little excited that there’s going to be a next, even if you’d mostly known there would be.

Hearing him say it though, made it sound a lot sweeter and a lot more tempting than it already was.

You just have to figure out how to top that video and if you even can.


	4. 911

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only the best of bros will do and Dave is, most certainly, the best of bros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate formatting pesterlog.

\--ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 10:14pm--

EB: i think i've got a problem.

TG: what is it now egbert

TG: if its itchy go to the doctor

EB: ugh, gross, dave.

TG: im serious man

TG: that shits nasty stuff

TG: dont scratch it

EB: i don't even want to know why you'd know that.

TG: i read

EB: yeah, okay.

TG: hey i dont like what youre insinuating here

EB: i don't like what we're talking about.

TG: is little johnny shy

EB: dave.

EB: i'm kind of serious here.

TG: right

TG: shoot

TG: lay it on me man

TG: what can dr dave do for you

TG: im all ears

TG: but you know with a face too

TG: cant get rid of this glorious mug

EB: ...

EB: right.

EB: okay, so i meant to text you a picture and sent it to the wrong person.

TG: dude 

TG: what did you send

TG: are you sending dick pics egbert

TG: didnt anyone ever tell you to double check that shit

TG: god damn

EB: no!

EB: i wasnt sending you a dick pic.

EB: god, why was that your first thought?

TG: yeah egbert

TG: you're talking to the guy 

TG: thats the normal thought when your best bro tells you he has a problem and it involved sending you pics

TG: dick pics

TG: logical answer

EB: that's not a logical answer.

EB: but i don't want to talk about that!

EB: i want to talk about how the person i accidentally sent them to sent one back.

TG: dude

TG: they what

EB: sent one back.

EB: a selfie or whatever.

EB: i was sending you one because you always do that duckface thing and stuff so i lifted up my shirt, right?

EB: and this guy sent one back with his shirt lifted up and...

EB: yeah.

TG: whoa whoa whoa

TG: stop the clock

TG: because what

TG: you sent a random dude some pic of your man titties and he sent one back

EB: they're not man titties.

TG: man titties

TG: im afraid to ask

TG: but im going to because fuck

TG: i gotta know

TG: how was it

EB: how was what?

TG: the selfie you got back

TG: god keep up

EB: oh...

TG: oh

TG: egbert youre killing me here

EB: yeah.

EB: he's hot.

EB: really hot.

TG: well shit

TG: fuck

TG: how do you have all the luck egbert

EB: what?

TG: like seriously

TG: who the fuck sends a selfie to some random ass number

TG: and gets some hot piece of ass on the other side

TG: no

TG: you get flubber dude

TG: complete with wiggling jiggling green love handles

TG: but no

TG: not john egbert

TG: the best of bros

TG: the dork extraordinaire

TG: the guy who sleeps in his ghost busters panties

EB: they're not panties.

TG: who thinks dick jokes are funny

EB: you laugh at them too.

TG: the biggest fucking dork on the planet

EB: that's you.

TG: you get the hot guy

TG: on the other end of the line

TG: thats probably gonna send you dick pics

EB: why is it always dicks with you!

TG: i cant even handle you right now

TG: i just

TG: god

TG: i can't

EB: dave.

TG: how do you even

TG: how is that possible

EB: dave.

TG: i cant believe this

EB: dave!!!!

TG: john

EB: i think i like him

TG: well shit

EB: yeah

TG: i mean

TG: theres a lot of hot guys out there

TG: cant pine over a selfie dude

EB: well...

TG: well what

TG: no

TG: fuck no

TG: you didnt

EB: it was a couple pictures.

EB: and there was a video maybe and we just kind of... talk, you know?

EB: he texts me during the day and we just talk about stuff.

TG: you talk

TG: and back up what

TG: he sent you a video?

EB: yeah.

TG: egbert you really need to work on this informing your bro of all the juicy details

EB: sorry, it's just kind of weird.

TG: i live in a phallic wasteland of felt and penis shaped pancake dreams

TG: try again

EB: right, yeah, okay.

EB: he was just biting his lip and stuff.

TG: im sure if im groaning because fuck thats hot

TG: or because youre totally clueless sometimes

EB: i'm not clueless. i know that's hot.

EB: it was really hot.

TG: i dont know man

TG: sounds like you're understating this shit

TG: i might have to see it to believe it

You hesitate, not because you don't think Dave will disagree with you but because you kind of want to keep these all to yourself. Which seems kind of silly, you guess, but the whole thing is kind of silly. 

This is your thing and, yeah, you're sharing it with Dave now but, it's still you and that's kind of liberating in a way. Maybe it's something about the silliness, or maybe it's that weird almost forbidden feeling from hiding something like this that really pulled you in. 

But now?

Now you're not so sure...

And Dave's your best friend. There's no real reason to not tell him. You trust him. You've known him for years, even though you've never actually met in person, and when you look back at the screen you have to laugh at yourself because you're not even sure why you were worried about it in the first place.

He gets it. He always gets it. 

TG: its cool egbert

TG: hoard the pictures

TG: see if i care man

TG: have you fun

TG: be all secretive and shit

TG: but im gonna see them someday

TG: you got me

EB: yeah, i got you.

EB: promise. <3

TG: whats with you and these dumb hearts

TG: god damn

TG: i mean look at them

TG: all contagious and

TG: and oh god

TG: im infected

TG: <3

EB: you're such a dork.

EB: i'm going to bed.

TG: yeah yeah

TG: goodnight johnny

TG: sweet hot man dicks

TG: i mean dreams

TG: and you know

TG: its cool bro

TG: if you like him i mean

TG: just be careful and shit

TG: i mean

TG: i dont want to be out kickin some dudes ass because he broke my best bros heart

TG: or tried to grope his no no spots

TG: but i would dude

TG: so you know

TG: keep me posted

\--turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 10:58pm--

Closing the window, you get up and grab your phone. Checking for messages has become habit and, by now, you've pretty much stopped caring whether only one person texts you or not. 

You want him to and getting embarrassed over it is kind of stupid. 

Unless you're in public because then you can't really help it if your face turns red and the guy at the checkout is giving you weird looks because no one should be subjected to such a perfect chest in the middle of the day in a place that inconvenient. 

But, by far, the worst part is, he's nice. 

He's hot and he's nice and somehow, between the pictures and the video clips, he's taken to asking you how your day was and you guys started just talking-- about regular stuff, things you like and don't like and all of that junk you see in afternoon sitcoms. 

He likes movies, though not as much as you do, but you can't really hold that over anyone. You really like movies. He runs some kind of business and you guess he's good with his hands because he's talked about building stuff you can't even remember the names of. He likes the sky-- stars and astrology and you've kind of started nudging him in that direction every once in a while because even through text you can tell how much he likes talking about telescopes and meteor showers and constellations you couldn't pick out if your life depended on it. 

He's just... more than that first picture. 

And, yeah, you've heard all the sayings-- 'a picture's worth a thousand words', blah blah. But you're kind of starting to actually understand it and you're not really sure how you feel about that. 

It doesn't matter though because right now it's late and the pillow under your cheek is lulling you into an extremely honest sense of security. 

Still, you can't help but smile when you hear your phone vibrate against the comforter and see the screen lights up and you already know what the message is going to say. You can't wait to open it though and the simple 'goodnight' is more than enough to send all of that worry right back to the far corner of your mind. 

Like Dave said, it's fine. You're fine and you even though you might not need a knight in shining armor to come smack the hands away from your no-no spots, just knowing that Dave's okay with it makes you feel that much better about it.


End file.
